


what silence sounds like

by Shinybug



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24258058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever heard Geralt use the word ‘please’ before, but the longer he’s in Geralt’s presence the more cracks appear in the walls around his heart, and he knows he’ll have to leave for his own good. He doesn’t know how else to get his point across, so he tries brutal honesty. “You broke my heart, Geralt. Don’t follow me anymore.”***Geralt seeks to make amends after what happened on the mountain. Jaskier seeks to escape from an apology he can't believe.Canon through 1x06 Rare Species.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 92
Kudos: 1001
Collections: wiedźmin





	what silence sounds like

The first time it happens is probably an accident. Just a coincidence, Jaskier tells himself. It’s a big world, but also somehow a small one, and it was bound to happen eventually.

He’s halfway through his set, and he’s just hooked the audience with a song of bravery and adventure. He’s easing into a tale of tragically star-crossed lovers, to appeal to the more romantically inclined ladies and gentlemen in the crowd, when suddenly Geralt is filling up the doorway with his armored bulk and Jaskier’s voice cracks on a high note.

They lock eyes for a moment, too long to be casual and not long enough to be significant. Geralt looks away and then moves into the tavern and away from Jaskier, heading for the back. Jaskier picks up his song where he left off, and the quizzical looks from the nearest patrons quickly smooth into more appreciative expressions as he continues wooing them with his voice.

Geralt sits in the back with an ale for the remainder of his set, and Jaskier is packing up his lute with a sour twist in his stomach when he sees in the corner of his eye a dark hulking shadow slip out the door.

Jaskier does not follow him.

***

The second time it happens, Jaskier steps through the door of the inn with his lute strapped to his back, hoping for a cheap room and a good crowd, and he sees Geralt leaning on the bar with a tankard in his hand. Jaskier takes a fortifying breath and steps straight up to the bar. He does not look at Geralt as he signals the barkeep for a drink and the negotiation for a room. Geralt does not look at him. Jaskier is certain he would feel it if he had.

He drinks his ale as fast as he can without choking on it, and takes the key in his shaking fist. He marches up the stairs to the room he’s taken and lets himself in. When he has gently dropped his lute to the floor he leans back against the door and covers his face.

Geralt doesn’t watch Jaskier play that evening. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s even still at the inn, but later that night after he has gone to bed he hears the distinctive tread of heavy boots on the creaking wood floor. He holds his breath and waits as the boots pause at his door. His heart is thumping hard enough to hurt, but Geralt moves past his room to the one next door.

Jaskier lies awake half the night listening for sounds and not hearing any, wondering if Geralt is lying there listening for him. At some point he falls asleep with his head in an awkwardly tense position, and wakes up the next morning in pain. He massages the crick out of his neck as he leaves his room, and sees the door of the room beside his standing wide open, cleared of any evidence that Geralt had been there at all.

***

The third time they collide outside an inn, in a town whose name Jaskier can’t remember. He’s footsore and weary and walks right into Geralt, who is exiting the stable with his bags slung over his shoulder. They stare at each other, both wide eyed and startled, neither of them speaking. Jaskier is so close that he catches the familiar scent of sweat and leather and smoke that clings to Geralt. He can remember it from a hundred campfires as vividly as though he is there again with him.

Jaskier steps back and bites his lip to stop it trembling, then moves in a wide arc around Geralt and heads back toward the road. He’d rather walk into the night and find somewhere to camp down the road than stay another night under the same roof as Geralt of Rivia.

He hears Geralt say, “Jaskier,” quietly as he leaves. He doesn’t turn around.

***

The fourth time Geralt finds him at a bar nursing his ale after a long evening of playing for the crowd. Geralt leans carefully next to him and doesn’t say anything.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Jaskier says, not bothering to look at him. His voice is hoarse and he’d like to blame it on all the singing he just did, except that his voice is a finely tuned instrument and only emotion ever clouds it.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, dropping some coins on the bar and accepting a mug of ale.

“I’d say you were following me, but we both know that would be a lie.”

“I’ve been following you.”

Jaskier drops his mug on the bar harder than he intended. Ale slops over the rim. “Why,” he says flatly.

There’s a long silence. “I don’t like how things ended.”

Jaskier pushes away from the bar and leaves, heading for his room. Geralt catches his elbow and holds him there in the hallway. “Jaskier.”

“Let go of my arm, Geralt, or the gods help me I will start yelling. And you know how loud I can be.” He finally looks Geralt in the eye, but it’s too dark to really see his expression.

Geralt lets go. “You’re right to be angry.”

Jaskier draws himself up to his full height, just a few inches shy of Geralt himself. “I don’t need your permission to be angry.”

“I’d like...to talk.”

There in the hallway of a nondescript inn Jaskier’s heart cracks wide open, again. “I’m tired. I just sang for my supper after walking all day. And I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

“Why would it be--”

“Because there’s nothing you can say to make it better, Geralt. Nothing at all.”

He watches out the window of his room as Roach leaves town at a canter, a streak of golden brown down the main road in the last light of day. Geralt is riding far too fast for this time of day, with darkness quickly falling, but Jaskier turns away and places his lute carefully into its case. It’s no longer his business, he tells himself, his vision blurred with tears.

***

The fifth time he’s in the middle of a set again, just after a song about adventure on the high seas, as he’s taking a quick break to tune his lute. He just sighs deeply and bows with apologies to the crowd, then makes his way to the back of the room.

Geralt’s yellow eyes watch him approach, and his mouth is pursed in a flat line as though he’s bracing for some kind of an impact. He’s just sat down and he has a full tankard of ale in his fist. Jaskier settles down across from Geralt, his soul full of resignation.

“What do you want to talk about?”

Geralt stares at Jaskier and his eyes are unnerving, unblinking. “I want to tell you...I’m sorry.”

Jaskier stares back. “Are you telling me that for your benefit or mine?”

Finally he looks away and takes a drink. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was angry. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“See, here’s the thing,” Jaskier says, picking at the chipped edge of the table. “I think you did mean it. At least part of it. You spent years just trying to get me to leave you alone, to leave you in peace. Geralt, your first wish to the djinn nearly killed me, just because I wouldn’t shut up. You tell me you didn’t mean it. I believe you did.”

Geralt flinches visibly and Jaskier feels a petty satisfaction.

“So you see,” he continues, “you really don’t need to waste your breath. I can talk enough for the both of us, and then we can go our separate ways.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, his voice low and soft. “I’m trying to apologize.”

“I don’t want your apology, Geralt. I wanted you to care enough in the first place that you’d have had nothing to apologize for.”

“I do care.” Geralt leans forward slightly and catches Jaskier’s eye again. “If I didn’t care I wouldn’t have tracked you across the godsdamned continent to tell you that.”

Jaskier sighs and grabs Geralt’s tankard out of his hand, then takes a deep drink of it. “Fuck, that’s truly terrible ale.”

Silence descends between them, and Jaskier squirms under Geralt’s scrutiny, wondering what he sees. He drinks some more bitter ale and frowns, trying to reconcile Geralt’s contradictory behavior. “Have you really been following me?”

“Not at first,” Geralt says, taking his tankard back. “But I saw you, and...I wanted to keep seeing you.”

“Well, now you’ve seen me,” Jaskier says slowly, and stands up. “And now I’m going to bed. I can’t take any more of this kind of caring from you, Geralt, I really can’t.”

“Please.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever heard Geralt use the word ‘please’ before, but the longer he’s in Geralt’s presence the more cracks appear in the walls around his heart, and he knows he’ll have to leave for his own good. He doesn’t know how else to get his point across, so he tries brutal honesty. “You broke my heart, Geralt. Don’t follow me anymore.”

Geralt looks stricken, and Jaskier walks away telling himself that the sight gives him pleasure. In reality, that look haunts him until he falls into an uneasy sleep, wondering where Geralt is spending the night, wondering if he still looks like someone had just punched him in the gut.

***

The sixth time it happens is nobody’s fault. It is, like the first time, just a coincidence. Jaskier is arguing with the innkeeper over whether or not a performance means he can have a room for the night, and the innkeep is adamantly arguing that they have no more rooms to let. It’s a busy time of year, he tells Jaskier, and there is simply nothing available.

“There must be somewhere I can sleep, I’ll even take a broom closet if you have one.”

The innkeeper makes a wry face. “There’s always the hay loft, if you don’t mind sharing with the one who was here before you.” He points to the end of the bar where Geralt is standing, staring at Jaskier like he can’t believe his eyes.

“Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier mutters under his breath. “Are you still following me?”

Geralt shakes his head mutely.

Jaskier scrubs a hand over his face. It’s snowing outside and he’s too tired to seek other lodgings, and he still has to perform. He knows it’s a mistake, but he hears himself agree to the offer of the hayloft. Perhaps it’s big enough that he need not interact with Geralt at all.

Geralt just focuses on his ale.

The show must go on, so Jaskier squares his shoulders and swings his lute around to the front, striking a chord that resonates even in the loud room. He puts a dazzling grin on his face and steps to the center of the room, bracing one boot on an empty chair. If he doesn’t look directly at Geralt he’ll be alright, he tells himself, and plays for the crowd.

When he finishes to rousing applause he notes that Geralt is absent from the room. Feeling jittery, Jaskier gathers his things and braves the silent, snowy world outside to get to the stable, unsure what he’ll find.

What he finds is Roach, placidly munching hay in her stall. He greets her like an old friend and she bumps him affectionately in the chest with her velvety nose, which makes Jaskier smile.

He climbs the ladder to the loft slowly in the dark. There is only one lantern in the stable and it’s hanging beside the front doors, and it’s almost too dark to see where he’s going. When he reaches the top he feels around on the floor carefully, but it’s no use. He can hardly see his hand in front of his face.

“Geralt?” he asks, hushed.

“Here,” Geralt replies, and catches Jaskier’s outstretched hand. “Come forward.”

“You can see everything perfectly, can’t you?” Jaskier is dismayed at needing to hold tight to Geralt instead of pushing him away.

Geralt squeezes his hand. “Not perfectly, no.”

Jaskier sighs and lets himself be led to a hay bale he can sit on. Geralt releases his hand and Jaskier curls it into a fist, unwisely holding onto the feel of Geralt’s skin against his.

There is a scuffling sound, then the flare of a wick in a lantern, and then the hayloft is bathed in dim golden light. Geralt hangs it on a hook on the wall and turns to Jaskier.

“How was your evening?” he asks, looking awkwardly at his feet.

Jaskier stares at him. “It was fine,” he eventually replies, setting his lute and pack on the floor. “Good crowd, good coin.”

Geralt nods. He sits down on a hay bale across from Jaskier and leans with his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t plan this.”

“I believe you.” Jaskier sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. “Do you have any wine?”

Geralt hands him a wineskin and Jaskier takes a drink, then hands it back. Their hands brush and Jaskier shivers.

“So...how have you been?”

“Are we really going to do the small talk thing?” Jaskier asks incredulously.

“You didn’t want to talk about the large things.”

“That’s fair, I suppose.” Jaskier looks around at the small hayloft in which they sit. There is a pallet in the corner between bales of hay. At least it doesn’t look too filthy, but there’s only one. He bites his lip. “I’ve just been traveling. Singing for my supper. I’ve covered a lot of miles since you told me to fuck off.”

Geralt just watches him quietly. In the light of the lantern his eyes look like molten gold.

“What about you? Kill any good monsters lately?”

“Mostly the usual. There was a bruxa that put up a fight a few weeks ago, left me a nasty scar as a parting gift.”

Jaskier doesn’t ask where the scar is, though he wants to. The snow falling on the roof leaves everything hushed and cold but the air is slightly warmer in the loft, and he is keenly aware of how close they’re sitting. Hay bales are stacked to the rafters in golden stair steps around them, and Jaskier leans his back against the one behind him. He crosses his arms.

After a while Geralt hands him the wineskin again and Jaskier drinks, wishing he was tired enough to use the excuse of going to sleep early. Geralt’s mere presence after so long without him is making his blood rush through his body in rapid pulses, making him want to squirm, to stand and pace. He makes himself stay still, as if by staying motionless he will appear stronger. Immune to emotion.

“I missed you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier jumps to his feet anyway. He clutches the wineskin in his fist as though it were a weapon, and paces as far away from Geralt as he can get.

“You can’t say things like that to me.”

“Like what?”

“Like--like--you really do care. Like you think you’re going to win me over. Like you’d even want to.”

Geralt tilts his head slightly and looks up at him, startled. “I told you, I do care. I always cared. I just didn’t know how much until you were gone.”

Jaskier scoffs, shaking. “You mean, until you sent me away. This was your perfect blessing, remember? I’ve tried so hard to stay gone, Geralt, you have no idea. How difficult it’s been, how much I’ve--” He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. “If I heard about you while traveling I made sure to go the other way. Then you’d find me anyway, and it dragged everything up all over again.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll keep saying it, if you need me to.” Geralt stands up and blocks his path. “Jaskier, look at me.”

“No.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt puts out a hand and touches him on the shoulder. Not holding on, not gripping, just touching. Jaskier is unable to move anyway. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier feels tears welling in his eyes and blinks them away. “What’s to stop you from saying those things again? From cutting me down and sending me away?”

“Because you above all people didn’t deserve a single word of what I said. And I’ll do whatever it takes until you believe that.”

“Then why did you say it?” Jaskier’s whole world seems to revolve around Geralt’s low voice and the warm hand on his shoulder.

“I was an angry fool,” Geralt says, his voice full of regret. “I had no control over something I thought was important to me, so I sought to control something whose importance I took for granted.”

“And now you’ve realized how important I am to you?” Jaskier doesn’t even try to hide his scepticism.

Geralt’s thumb shifts, rubbing along his collar bone, and Jaskier shivers. “Now I know what silence sounds like.”

Jaskier bites his lip until it hurts. “What are you asking me?” he whispers, trying not to sway into Geralt’s touch. He smells like leather and smoke. His eyes are gold, his hair falls in pale waves over his shoulders and Jaskier wants to run his fingers through it.

“Come with me,” Geralt says, moving his hand up Jaskier’s neck to press his thumb to his jumping pulse. He leans in, tracing the line of Jaskier’s jaw with his other hand.

Jaskier makes a sound, just a small one, a stifled moan, and Geralt sucks in a swift breath. His exhale is warm against Jaskier’s lips, and Jaskier waits. His heart hurts from pounding and he drops the wineskin on the floor, uncaring if it’s corked or not. He rests his fingertips on Geralt’s chest, wanting to push him away, wanting to pull him close. He waits.

“Please,” Geralt murmurs.

“Yes,” Jaskier replies, because it was inevitable.

Geralt’s mouth on his is hesitant and warm, gentle like gravity, falling. Jaskier slowly curls his fingers into Geralt’s shirt and holds on, sinking into Geralt’s arms and opening his mouth for a deeper kiss that doesn’t come.

Jaskier didn’t know a kiss could be this slow, this thorough, without ever delving deeper than the lips. By the time he feels Geralt’s tongue flicker against his upper lip he’s ready to cry, gasping against Geralt’s mouth and swaying with his own heartbeat. He catches Geralt’s tongue with his and it’s Geralt who moans, taking Jaskier’s head in his hands and holding him still. Finally he sweeps his tongue shallowly through Jaskier’s mouth and Jaskier fights to get closer. Geralt holds him off.

It’s not rejection, and Jaskier knows this rationally, but it feels so close to it that he grows still. He pulls back until he can press his lips together and feel how swollen they are, and he unclenches his fists from Geralt’s shirt.

“Don’t you want…” he whispers, trailing off when Geralt slides his big hands down Jaskier’s ribs and spans his lower back, pulling him close enough for Jaskier to feel Geralt’s hardness against his belly.

“I want,” Geralt replies, his voice like velvet dragged over stone.

Jaskier breathes a shaky sigh and reaches up to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair. One tug loosens the leather tie and his hair slips down around his shoulders in loose waves. Jaskier rubs his fingertips against Geralt’s scalp and he purrs deep in his throat, leaning into the touch.

Jaskier tries to guide Geralt toward the straw pallet in the corner but meets resistance when Geralt plants his feet. “This would work better over there,” he says, pulling on his arms, but he might as well be pulling on a tree.

“I just want you to be sure--”

“I’m sure, Geralt.”

“--of me.”

Jaskier stops.

“I want you to be sure of me,” Geralt repeats, pressing his forehead against Jaskier’s.

He takes Geralt’s face in his hands and lets gray stubble abrade his palms. “Then come show me.”

Jaskier leans in and kisses him, as achingly slowly as the first kiss, until Geralt gives way and lets Jaskier pull him over to the pallet. He tugs Geralt down over him, wanting to feel his weight, but Geralt holds himself to the side. He can feel Geralt trembling with tension, and his eyes are dark with thin gold rings as he watches Jaskier carefully. 

“Geralt, if you want me to be sure of you I need you to stop treating me like I’m glass ready to shatter. I want to see you letting go. Show me what you want.” He draws Geralt down into a kiss and suddenly with a broken sound Geralt is holding him down and tangling his tongue with Jaskier’s, a welcome invasion.

“I want you to stay,” he mumbles against Jaskier’s lips as he slips his hand beneath Jaskier’s doublet and strokes down his chest. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is feeling for his heartbeat.

He drags his lips down Geralt’s chin and neck, daring to bite gently. Geralt growls low in his throat and it vibrates against Jaskier’s lips. “I want to come back.”

Geralt begins tugging at Jaskier’s clothes, an uncoordinated struggle that gets nowhere until Jaskier helps, stripping off his doublet and trying to get his shirt off. Geralt is kissing down his chest, licking whatever skin is bared at the open vee of his shirt.

“Geralt, sit up. I’m not going anywhere.” He shoves Geralt back and removes the rest of his clothes, not stopping until he’s naked as the day he was born. It’s cold enough in the loft that he shivers, and Geralt covers him with his body.

Warmth and the friction of Geralt’s clothes on his cock are a sudden stimulation that has Jaskier thrusting up, wrapping his leg around Geralt’s and throwing his head back on a moan. Geralt hisses and holds Jaskier’s hips still, rocking against him in a rough rhythm. “Make noise,” Geralt entreats in between deep kisses that make Jaskier’s vision go white. “I want to hear your voice. I want to hear what I’ve been missing.”

“Oh gods,” Jaskier groans, digging his fingers into Geralt’s shirt, “do you know what you’re asking? Once I get started I may never stop.”

“Good,” Geralt replies, moving Jaskier’s hands so he can yank his shirt over his head. His skin is as golden as his eyes in the light of the lantern on the wall, and his scars stand out like silver. There’s a new one crossing his chest, angry and healing, and Jaskier places a kiss there.

“You’re beautiful, Geralt,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice down. The horses won’t care how loud he is. “I’ve dreamed about this, about your skin on mine, wondering if it would feel like silk or velvet. Wondering if you’d let me taste you everywhere to see if you’re salty or sweet, if your skin smells like leather and campfire smoke the way your clothes do. I used to breathe you in whenever you’d come close to me.”

He pushes Geralt over until he’s the one on the bottom and Jaskier climbs on top, straddling his thighs. He ducks his head and licks a stripe up Geralt’s chest, over his tightened nipple, and Geralt sucks in a deep breath, his hands going to Jaskier’s head.

“Gods,” Jaskier whispers. “Are you real? Am I asleep somewhere? You don’t know how badly I’ve needed this. I would lie alone in an empty bed and touch myself, pretending it was your hands on me. Pretending I had the taste of you in my mouth.”

Geralt grips his head and guides him downward until Jaskier’s mouth is skirting the waistband of Geralt’s breeches. He fumbles them open and then Geralt’s cock is there, heavy and flushed against his belly, and Jaskier sucks a kiss to the base of it. Geralt’s groan is loud and rough. Jaskier wraps his hand around and tests the girth of him, thick and hard as stone. He takes him into his mouth and just rests there for a moment, tasting salt and leather.

When he starts to move with little flicks of his tongue Geralt arches back against the pallet, and Jaskier reminds him to hold his hips still with an arm across his belly. He looks up and Geralt’s eyes are closed, his hair fanned out in a tangle, his cheeks flushed in a way that Jaskier has never seen, his muscles tight. He looks like a god.

He worships Geralt’s cock until he feels a hand in his hair, tugging him up and off. He flexes his jaw, trying to ease the painful stretch that he nevertheless relishes. Geralt hisses when Jaskier takes his cock in hand again, unable to stop touching him.

“Jaskier,” he pants, “you have to stop.”

“So you can fuck me?”

Geralt sits up and grabs him, yanking him forward until he’s riding Geralt’s thighs. Jaskier’s cock rests next to Geralt’s, and he can’t help but move his hips in tiny thrusts, letting his cock drag on Geralt’s belly. Geralt kisses him like it’s the last time he’ll ever see him, like he’s begging him to stay.

“I know you want to,” Jaskier says, pulling back. “You want to push me over one of these hay bales and fuck me until the only thing I can say is your name.”

Geralt groans. “I take it back. You have to stop talking if you want me to do anything else but come right now.”

“Or maybe it’s just me who wants all that,” Jaskier continues, ignoring Geralt and sliding his fingers into Geralt’s hair, gripping hard. “Maybe you want me to ride you right here, and I can pretend I’m strong enough to hold you down.”

“Fuck,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can feel him shuddering between his thighs. “I wanted to go slowly, to take care of you.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Go slowly later. Right now I need you to show me how badly you want this.”

Suddenly Geralt is shoving him off his lap and standing up, getting his boots and breeches off in quick, jerky motions. Jaskier stares in awe at his nakedness, but Geralt wastes no time turning away to grab his cloak and a bottle from his pack. He flings the cloak over the nearest bale of hay and pushes Jaskier over it so that his ass is tilted up and exposed. 

“Is this what you want?” Geralt asks, his voice low and breathless. He runs a hand over Jaskier’s ass, slipping his thumb between his cheeks. Even dry it feels like fireworks when Geralt drags over his hole.

“I want whatever you can give me, all of it. All of you.”

Geralt’s fingers are slick as they slowly breach him. He feels Geralt’s mouth peppering kisses along his spine, soothing and biting in turns as he opens up his body. Jaskier rocks back into his fingers, urging him on, but Geralt just keeps a maddeningly slow pace.

“I regretted never telling you how much I want this, when you were gone,” he breathes against Jaskier’s skin. “I regretted driving you away just because I was afraid to let you in. I regretted that I didn’t know how much I needed you until you were nothing but a void in my life.”

Jaskier is caught in a maelstrom of sensation and desire, and Geralt’s words spin through him like tangible touches on his skin. “You’re telling me now,” he gasps, twisting his fingers into the cloak, thrusting his cock against the weathered wool.

Geralt slicks himself and then his cock is sliding into Jaskier’s body, meeting little resistance despite his size. Jaskier relaxes his muscles and takes him in greedily, pushing back when Geralt goes too slowly. Geralt lets out a shuddering breath and grips Jaskier’s hips hard enough that Jaskier hopes there will be bruises afterward.

“How do you want me?” Geralt asks him.

“Deep and hard,” Jaskier murmurs, spreading his legs and bracing himself on the hay bale. “I want to feel you tomorrow.”

Geralt complies and thrusts deep, and Jaskier loses all his breath, taking him in and trying to keep him there. Geralt pulls back and slams back in, over and over until Jaskier is keening loudly, letting his voice out, just wanting Geralt to hear him. He wishes he could see Geralt’s face, but he wouldn’t trade this for any other way, not this time. This time Geralt is touching places inside him that set off sparks in his vision, that radiate pleasure in bright waves throughout his body. His fingertips tingle where they’re knotted in Geralt’s cloak. Geralt’s taste is still heavy and bitter on his tongue, smoke and leather and salt.

His peak comes upon him suddenly like a thief, and he chases it until he’s seizing up, his thighs shaking as he comes, clenching around Geralt’s cock. Geralt groans like he’s dying, and Jaskier feels him throb deep inside him, hot and slick.

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier whispers, dropping his head down on the cloak. Wool scratches his cheek and he breathes. Geralt is still hard within him and he spasms involuntarily. Geralt grunts, stroking a soothing hand over Jaskier’s ass. He spasms again when Geralt’s curious fingers slide down to caress the sensitive crease where his cheek meets his thigh.

They rock gently together as Geralt slowly softens within him, and Jaskier doesn’t want him to leave, but eventually Geralt slips out and Jaskier feels empty. There’s a void where he was, a feeling of incompleteness.

Carefully Jaskier unlocks his muscles and turns around, dizzy and out of breath. Geralt looks dazed, flushed. His skin glistens with sweat. Jaskier meets his eye and they just stare at each other for a long moment. Then Geralt touches his face with hot fingers, touches his mouth and then kisses him.

“Stay,” he says, which is not at all what Jaskier thought he would say.

“I will,” Jaskier answers, kissing him back.

Geralt cleans them up with a cloth from his pack, and Jaskier blushes when he wipes the cloak as clean as possible. He guides Jaskier over to the pallet and they lie there in a tangle of limbs. Geralt pulls his cloak over and covers them both in warmth.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you?” Geralt murmurs, brushing his lips against Jaskier’s temple. Jaskier shakes his head. “Since the moment you came over to my table and refused to go away. You just kept talking, and you weren’t afraid. You were eager and smiling, and your eyes were shining. I’d never seen that shade of blue until I saw you.”

Jaskier tucks his face against Geralt’s throat, kissing the pulse there, slow and soft. Geralt tips his head back and Jaskier moves up to lick the shell of his ear. Geralt moans and his hands tighten on Jaskier’s body. Jaskier eases back down with a small smile, pressing closer, his cock resting against Geralt’s thigh.

“When you were gone,” Geralt whispers, his voice low, “it was so quiet. Everywhere I went, everything I did, everything was silence. All I could hear was my own breathing and the rhythm of Roach’s hooves. There was no chatter, no music. The whole world lost its color.”

Jaskier bites his lip and runs his fingers down the length of the heavy chain resting on Geralt’s chest. He wraps his fingers around it and holds on.

“Talk to me,” Geralt says.

Jaskier thinks for a moment, trying to come up with some words for him. “I wrote a song for you but I’ve never sung it, not even to myself. I swore I never would.”

Geralt raises himself up over Jaskier and kisses him. “I just want to hear your voice. Talking, moaning, singing, I don’t care.”

Jaskier looks up at him, still amazed that he’s there. “I could tell you how beautiful you are to me. How your hands are a rough masterpiece of scars. How your golden eyes make me weak when you look at me, how I always longed to touch your cheek, to press my mouth to your perfect chin. How much I dreamed of you holding me down and giving me everything I ever wanted just by being there. How I imagined what you’d feel like inside me, your fingers, your cock. How the scent of you makes my blood run hot, makes me want to chase that scent all over your body with my tongue.”

Geralt lets out a long, shuddering breath and runs his thumb over Jaskier’s mouth, dipping briefly inside and slipping onward, then he leans down to take his mouth in a kiss that is reminiscent of everything they’ve just done, his tongue thrusting gently in an unmistakable rhythm while Jaskier begins to writhe underneath him. Geralt’s hair falls around them in a silver curtain that the lantern light can’t shine through, casting everything into darkness and sensation.

“I want you again,” Geralt says, low and urgent.

“I never stopped wanting,” Jaskier replies, taking his own cock in his hand and stroking himself to full hardness while Geralt shifts to watch. His knuckles brush Geralt’s cock, already hard and blood-hot, and he takes both of them into his hands together. Geralt groans and thrusts against him, bracing his arms on either side of Jaskier’s shoulders, trapping him, breathing heavily.

“I’ve never needed anyone like this,” he says, shifting his thigh to spread Jaskier’s further apart. “Can you take me again?”

Jaskier swallows hard. “We’ll never know until we try.”

Geralt sits back and tugs Jaskier’s hips into his lap, his cock already pressing inside before Jaskier can take a steadying breath. It aches and stings, but the greater part of it is a surge of sharp pleasure. He watches the play of Geralt’s muscles tensing and flexing as he moves Jaskier exactly where he needs him, and all Jaskier can do is lie there and take it.

When Geralt pulls him upright and holds him tight in his lap, stretched and helpless, he lets gravity take him down further than he knew he could handle, and it burns but he craves it. He holds onto Geralt’s shoulders and lets Geralt do the work, lifting him and letting him down slowly, holding him at just the right angle.

His breath comes in uneven gasps and he can’t look away from Geralt’s eyes, golden and penetrating. What he sees there is greater than any declaration or apology that Geralt could give him. It’s honest affection and need, it’s longing and desire, it’s hope. It drives him higher and higher, that look in Geralt’s eyes, until Jaskier is overwhelmed and can do nothing but come against Geralt’s stomach. Geralt shudders and lets Jaskier sink down, throbbing gently inside him.

There is a haze over everything afterwards. Jaskier feels Geralt ease him back down onto the pallet, and he lays there unable to move while Geralt cares for him, cleaning him with the gentlest of touches.

“I think I need to rest a bit before we go again,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt gives him one of his rare smiles.

“There’s no rush,” he says, and his voice is low and gentle.

Jaskier stretches slowly, feeling every spot in his body that aches, and loving it.

Geralt lays down beside him and pulls him close. The loft smells of sweet hay and Jaskier can hear the horses shifting around below them, and he remembers where they are and how they got there.

“I’m glad you followed me,” he says softly.

“This time I didn’t,” Geralt replies ruefully. “This time was a coincidence.”

Jaskier smiles. “Maybe it was destiny.”

Geralt shakes his head emphatically. “Destiny means that it happened whether we wanted it or not. I chose this. I chose you.”

“I think,” Jaskier says slowly, “that something brought us to the same place, and we decided what to do next. I could have turned you away again, or you could have given up. But first we had to find each other, on a snowy night in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but a hayloft to share. How could that be just a coincidence?”

Geralt is quiet for a long time. The snow is silently falling on the roof over their heads but it’s warm where they lay together.

“I only know that after what happened I needed to find you, to set it right. Whatever it took. I swore I’d find you again and make amends, even if that meant walking away afterwards.”

“You’re not walking away unless I’m walking with you.” He strokes Geralt’s chest idly over old scars and new, watching the rise and fall, feeling his heavy heartbeat.

Geralt picks up Jaskier’s hand and kisses his fingertips.

Jaskier is drifting near sleep when he hears Geralt say, “Where should we go?”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Jaskier murmurs, resting his hand over Geralt’s medallion. “As long as it has good ale, large crowds with deep pockets, and you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let's all just ignore the fact that in reality there would have been at least one utterly scandalized stableboy sleeping with the horses below the hayloft, shall we? ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always greatly welcomed and appreciated!


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